The Five Times Santana Keeps Her Cool Around Marley
by ineedtoleavethissite
Summary: (And the one time she doesn't.)


Follows canon up to the end of season five. Written for Michellelancelot as a penance for almost accidentally killing her with prescription medicine.

_(Disclaimer: This does not in any way reflect my own – very strong Brittana-shipping – ideas around Glee 100, but is merely twisting canon for the purpose of giving way to Martana.)_

* * *

**one.**

Santana's in the middle of one of the many depression naps she's been having as of late when she's woken by the banging.

At first, she ignores it, because it's Sunday and Rachel's at work and if some missionary has come here to turn her to the _light_, she might just end up strangling him. And like, she knows she's probably already going to hell anyway, but like, she's sure that doesn't mean she really _needs_ to take it to the next level while she's at it, too.

When the loft door bangs again, she groans. Well, looks like she's a-fucking-wake now, so. It must say something about her recent lethargic disposition that she doesn't even have the energy to rise filled with rage, as she usually does.

Just as well, too, since the sight she's met with would have rubbed the Santana from a few years ago the complete wrong way. The old Santana would have been very confused, and back then, a confused Santana was prone to lash out at any moment.

"Uhm, hello," says a faint voice. "You probably don't remember me, but, uhm, I'm–"

"Marley," Santana supplies. Of course she remembers that travesty, which possibly only ranks second to Finchel's epic goddamn hormonal nationals fuck up.

"Hi, Santana," Marley says kindly, almost formally, voice much stronger and more cheerful now.

"Yeah, come in," Santana says, sighing, because by now she's so used to people just flouncing in and out of this place.

(Hell, even _she_ has just landed here after Kurt left to make his life revolve around Bowtie even more by moving in with him.)

But then she sees–

"Oh, Jesus, what is this shit?"

Behind Marley are three quaint little suitcases that immediately remind Santana so much of the brightly coloured atrocities that Rachel so often drags through this city that Santana almost starts laughing. Only almost, though, if not for the shock that makes it die in her throat – shock born from the fact that, while she's become accustomed to the flouncers, they usually aren't high school fucking seniors.

When she glances back up to Marley's face, she sees flushed cheeks and a sheepish expression, and then she steps aside slowly as she opens the door a bit more, taking a deep-ass breath as she does so, sure that this will turn out to be a long fucking day.

–

Bringing some water back from the kitchen with mussed hair, baggy eyes and worn down sweats, Santana can feel Marley's curious eyes on her. She wonders just how big the contrast seems to whatever Marley must have seen her in last, faintly remembering wanting to impress the shit out of Brittany the last time she went back to McKinley.

"You look, uhm, good," Marley says conversationally as Santana hands her a glass, and Santana snorts, because that's just such a polite-girl lie that it's insane.

She's quite aware that she looks like shit, actually, worse than she's probably ever appeared out in public since she was a toddler still splashing in the mud. So, she just stays silent, because what is she supposed to say? _Oh, as it turns out, my soulmate was in fact not my soulmate after all and I haven't quite adapted enough to be able to function after th__e__ realisation?_

And then Marley makes it even worse by adding, "Where's Brittany?"

(Something in Santana breaks at the mention, but she doesn't let it show, because she hardly knows this girl and is not about to lay out her scars in the open for every damn straggler to see, no matter how fucked up her appearance is at the moment.)

She wants to answer, _Not here_, and move on, but she's come to realise lately that saying things clearly and honestly makes them hit her a bit harder and help just that much more with the moving-on process. And so Santana states it clearly and accordingly in the summarised version she's grown used to giving anyone who asks, which is:

"You know that saying about travelling with your partner being the ultimate test to see just how compatible you truly are?" Santana asks. "Well, guess we failed that one."

She should've seen the signs back on fucking Lesbos, really, because how could a logical person like herself even contemplate the idea that running way could ever really solve anything? Either way, that stupid excuse of a Troubletones reunion just served as the final thing that broke them completely and pushed them utterly past repair.

(Though she probably has that tour to thank for the entry level job at the recording company that saved her from the monotony of the diner, but all in all, even a stellar job like that feels like a shitty compromise to losing the love of her life.)

"I'm sorry," Marley says, and it sounds honest.

Santana almost snaps, _Aren't we all_, but she's too tired to produce any snark, and so she just points to the suitcases and says, "Right. I'm going to do some guesswork and you can tell me when I've struck gold, yeah?"

Marley looks confused, but Santana guesses she doesn't have the balls to say anything in return, so Santana just barrels on.

"Option A, a super rich uncle died, leaving you an accidental billionaire, and you've now decided to drop out of school and live out your financially-carefree days in the best city in the world?"

Marley frowns.

"Alright, option B. You're visiting for the summer to either tour the city or prepare for nationals or get a head on Broadway auditions or whatever it is the rest of you Rachel Berry-aspirers do in your free time, before heading back to Lima in the fall?"

Marley's frown deepens.

"And here's the shit that has me worried. Option C. You've decided to drop everything back home and come and wing it in what is in reality not some wonderland, but actually the most merciless place on God's green earth, without any fucking steady plans whatsoever?"

Marley's frown is now replaced with panic and a lip bite. You know you've fucked up when even fucking Trouty Evans got here with more life plans than you. Santana groans, and the sound sends Marley's protesting.

"You don't understand," Marley starts. "I thought everything was okay. I was fine with glee club ending, but then... I broke up with Jake, and went back to having almost no friends, and had no way to sing, and everything was just... _horrible_, this past year. I just wanted to... get away. I know Artie and Blaine and Sam, they all came here, and they're doing so well, and I thought–"

"Because they've _graduated_ high school, and had actual solid landing strips when they flew over here."

Marley looks away, and Santana tones down the anger in her voice. That fucking pout, holy shit, who needs that shit in their life?

"Do your parents even know where you are?" Santana asks, and Marley shrinks into herself _even more_. "Christ."

"I've had this idea for a while, so I started working at the Lima Bean," Marley says. "I just wanted to... I saved up some money, and it just... felt right. You know, running away."

The words cut Santana again, but she ignores it. Clearly, there are people in the world with much worse issues than her. She tries to put on the level head she's grown the past few years, and _thinks_.

"Right. As much as I appreciate the drama of this very senior year Quinn Fabray-ic turn of events, I'm going to save you the trouble of enduring a celebrity-themed tattoo by telling you what I should have told my best friend all those years ago," Santana says. "_Get fucking real_."

She says it without malice, because this kid doesn't seem like one to put up much of a fight, and Santana is sure she has the capacity to fucking _listen._

"This place can be a mess, and the people here can be messes, too. I understand feeling that escaping to another place will solve all your problems, God, do I, but listen, Lanky, you can't just up your life in the middle of it all and fuck off to another city. How far do you honestly think you can get without a diploma? The worst thing you can do for yourself is become one of those messed up fuckers drifting around down there."

Santana points to the window, and Marley follows her hand. Her whole face drops, panic intensifying, and Santana surreptitiously lets out a breath of relief. She softens her voice.

"When you do it right, though, Marley, trust me. To not be one of those messes, and actually _make it _in any way or form here – let me tell you, it'll be so much more worth the wait, I promise."

"Oh, God," Marley says, finally just realising just where the fuck she is and just what she's attempted here. She puts her glass down and puts her head in her hands, breaking down somewhat. "What have I _done_?"

"Uhm," Santana says, now uncomfortable because, while she's grown used to comfort Berry and the rest of the glee vagrants, this is still a virtual stranger. So, she turns to calculation mode. "It's going to be fine. Come here."

Santana gets up immediately and pulls Marley over to the loft door, trying her best to ignore the distraught look on Marley's face and get Marley back to her normal self as soon as possible.

"Help me get these grotesque Berry-esque fucking cases down the stairs."

–

"Where are we going?" Marley asks.

Santana flagged down the first taxi she laid her eyes on and pushed Marley into it as fast as she fucking could.

"You said you saved up like an entire year's money, right?" Santana asks. Marley nods. "So then, if you're lucky, you can get a ticket that'll get you home before your folks even notice you were gone and you can happily forget that any of this ever happened."

Clearly not happy about coming all the way just for this, Marley starts with, "But–"

"It's best to just get moving right now," Santana interrupts. "New York's like a fucking whirlpool. It like, runs on giving people little glimpses of hope. You've got your senses back now, but trust me, if you stay just a few moments longer you might just get pulled right back into the unending fucking depths of some clichéd struggling artist lifestyle accompanied by an aggravatingly optimistic Frank Sinatra soundtrack. Just like the rest of us, really."

It makes Marley smile, at least, and Santana knows that somewhere in that little naïve fucking noggin some logic has found its home, so she knows Marley won't fight her on this.

By the time JFK comes into view, and Santana's finally helping Marley to lug her belongings over to the departures area, she's glad to find a newly resolute expression starting to show underneath all Marley's doubt and disappointment.

"You'll be okay now, Twiggy? Remember, you've got time. New York will be here when you're ready."

Marley still looks hesitant, but she nods anyway, and Santana subtly pushes her toward the cashier, where she can see the notice board flashing to Ohio a flight that leaves in a few hours. Marley grabs her suitcases tighter and turns to Santana with a serious expression.

"Thanks, Santana," Marley says. "I hardly know you, but you're the only one who ever really seems to listen to me."

"That's because you're permanently surrounded by idiotic Shuester and his loyal band of ignorant fuckheads, little Rose," Santana notes. "Can't really expect much there, I've learnt."

"I'll try and remember that, to get me through the year," Marley says. She looks sad all of a sudden, so Santana acts immediately.

"Between you and me, though," Santana says, trying to make her tone conspiratorial. "Doing this took some balls, I can give you that. But don't tell anyone I ever condoned any part of this dumbass, wildly inappropriate plan."

Marley smiles and turns to leave, and Santana watches her go, waiting until Marley's finished buying her tickets before making her own way back home.

When that kid gets her shit together and learns to think with a calm fucking mind, Santana thinks, the city better fucking watch out, because if this is what's she's capable of in her free time, Santana can hardly comprehend just what the fuck type of quiet storm that girl could create.

–

–

**two. **

One year later, it's like déjà fucking vu. Here Santana is, quietly starting to enjoy her life again, when Marley Rose appears on her doorstep once more, in a picture that seems near duplicated from a summer ago.

Things haven't changed much in the loft. Rachel's still caught between NYADA and her still budding theatre career. The latest third of their trio – which was, of all people, fucking Dani, who somehow grew to be Santana's friend again and moved in with them after Kurt left – just moved out and they've been roommate hunting ever since.

Though, Santana's sure none of that will be necessary anymore, now.

Santana levels Marley with a hard stare. "You got your shit sorted this time?"

As if she was waiting for that exact answer, Marley smiles widely as she pulls a red mortarboard from behind her back and puts it on her head, almost smugly.

Santana rolls her eyes, because what a fucking dork, but steps aside regardless, pulling the loft door open wider with a much lighter heart that she did last year.

–

Marley fits in surprisingly well with them and seems to be settling into her new life quite swell until one week later, when Santana is awoken by a constant squeaking sound coming from Marley's room. The sound is beyond irritating, but the foreignness of it makes Santana on alert instead of angry, at first, and she gets up without pause.

Rachel is out at one of her many new pieces of man candy's houses – their faces change every week and Santana is more than understanding at the coping mechanism, because God, Santana can't even begin to fathom what she'd have done if that were her, because now, finally after all these months, she is lucky enough to at least have come to feel closure from Brittany.

The creaking intensifies when she comes to a stop outside Marley's door, and if she hadn't come to know Marley's character so well so quickly this past week, she'd have thought the girl was going at it with someone, but firstly, the kid doesn't have it in her, and secondly, there are no, well... _accompanying_ sounds to support that thesis.

Tentatively, Santana knocks on the door, whispering, "Marley? Can I come in?" as she does.

She hears some kind of confirmatory hum coming from the other side, and slowly steps into the room. Bathed in the dim light of her bedside lamp, Marley sits cross-legged at the head of her bed, rocking back and forth – there's that fucking awful noise's origin, God – while staring at absolutely nothing in front of her. And, honestly, this is some serious fucking Exorcist shit right here, Santana thinks.

Santana's not going to lie, she does do a quick double take of the room just to make sure there aren't any fucking Grudge demons or some shit hanging from the ceiling – she's pretty sure her clock said midnight when she left her own room, so that's when the spooky shit happens, right? – before she carefully nears Marley's still moving frame on the bed.

"Hey, Marley," Santana whispers again, slowly moving into Marley's line of vision. "Are you, like, awake? Or is this some, er, sleep rocking or some shit?"

Marley shakes her head, and Santana doesn't quite know what she's confirming or refuting, but at least it proves that Marley can hear her, so that's something. Santana gets straight to the point.

"You're kind of freaking me out here, chica. What the actual fuck is happening right now?"

Marley doesn't react, and so Santana reaches out a hand to touch her shoulder, and that seems to do the trick. She shakes a bit and faces Santana, stopping her intense rocking, thank fuck, and when her their eyes meet, Santana finally sees that Marley looks equal parts exhausted and, strangely, terrified. Oh, fuck, what if this bitch really _is_ fucking haunted or something? Santana thinks herself to be a generally loyal and supportive human being, but she did _so _not sign up for this shit, and will totally not be here for it.

"God, Santana, it was horrible," Marley starts, all forebodingly, and Santana is just about ready to back the fuck away right now, but then Marley speaks up again. "They were all so _talented_, all from art schools and experienced with competitions and travelling and showcases and..."

Ah, Santana thinks as Marley trails off, it was Marley's first day at uni today. (She hasn't seen the girl yet since she passed out right after a draining day at work, but it seems like she missed quite a lot, then.)

"Whoa, whoa, whoa," Santana says. "Let's just take a deep breath for a hot second, okay?"

Fuck, she wishes Rachel were here, because while Santana's more adept with this friendship shit by now, Marley and Rachel have struck up an impenetrable bond lately. Rachel would know much better about what to say to Marley in this situation. Their similar interests and passions have had them talking each other's ears off this past week – well, more so Rachel than Marley, of course – and Santana's sure Rachel would be perfectly capable of relating to Marley at this time through some rather probable shared experiences.

And because Marley is not taking a deep fucking breath and not calming down at fucking all, and Santana feels quite at a fucking loss, but shit, one of them needs to keep a goddamn level head here.

"There's this freaking opera singer," Marley continues out of nowhere. "I swear people can hear her over at the international damn space station, because she just..." Marley starts shaking her head and then her body again, only stopping when Santana reaches and taps on her forearm once more.

"You've got some pipes on you as well," Santana says. "It's just a different talent, you shouldn't let yourself be intimidated."

"You didn't see it, Santana," Marley says. "They can all do what I can, only better, and also act and dance and they all can do ballet, for some reason, I mean every single one can do freaking ballet and I'm like, what's that about? They're all–"

"Marley," Santana says, somewhat harshly, and fuck, Marley's eyes start watering, and shit shit shit. "Wait, relax, you're getting _way_ ahead of yourself here. It's just the first day and–"

Oh God fucking damnit, now Marley's full out crying. Santana looks around hopelessly since she'd even take a fucking ghost spirit as a distraction instead right about now because she was not at all prepared for these random ass middle-of-the-night feelings today.

"Uhm, okay," Santana says, useful as fuck, scooting a little closer to Marley and when she does, Marley immediately falls into her side, and Jesus. "Oh, wow," Santana says then, even more useful than before.

Marley sniffles against her shoulder and Santana awkwardly pats her back. It's just like last year all over again, she thinks, when Marley nearly had another breakdown, and Santana realises that maybe all she needs is a second pep talk. Santana's supposed to be the mentor here after all, isn't she? And well, getting bitches to man up is kind of her speciality, too, so it all works.

"Didn't your short time in our fucked up little glee club teach you anything? Everyone's special, or whatever. Your special thing is that you come from a club that is led by a pedophile teacher and consists of the biggest bunch of freaks in the midwest, so I'm pretty sure you can handle some snotty NYU junkies."

Marley huffs through her tears. "We weren't freaks."

"Not you," Santana affirms. "You're pretty sane in comparison. But the rest – I mean, you know, you've been taking regular trips on the wild ride that is the Rachel Berry Express the past week. It gets intense."

That one gets her. Marley chuckles just a bit through her tears. Santana decides it's time to take it home.

"Things could have been worse. You could have, I don't know, got up and left Lima before even finishing high school and flew to New York like a fucking idiot, you know?" Marley looks at her disapprovingly. "But instead you got into one of the most prestigious schools around and are heading to big things, 'cause you wouldn't have gotten in there without reason, I mean, come on."

Marley finally takes the deep fucking breath Santana asked of her minutes ago and Santana can see it works immediately, and fuck, this is why people should just fucking listen to her right off the bat at all fucking times, God.

"I'm so glad I listened to you back then, Santana," Marley says.

"Of course you are," Santana answers. "I'm fucking awesome."

"Yeah," is all Marley replies with, and Santana takes it as her queue to get up.

"You can stay here, if you want," Marley says, getting under the covers and scooting over to make a space for Santana.

Santana sighs, because, well, she is strangely fond of this kid, so she doesn't want their relationship to be reduced to pep talks and babysitting like this. But maybe Marley doesn't see it that way, and well, they _did_ start this off with the whole mentor thing, and perhaps that's just a way to get an eventual proper friendship off the ground, if anything.

Well, Santana thinks as she's joining Marley and settling on her side of the bed, we'll see where it goes from here, she guesses.

–

–

**three.**

Marley's going to have a fucking field day. This must be karma, Santana thinks.

(Knowing that doesn't make it any less painful, though.)

She lies on her bed and stares up at the ceiling, oddly hurt and betrayed by it all, but most of all angry at herself for getting too invested when she knew she ought to have played the game a bit better than she did.

She sighs when the door opens and the telltale sounds of those stupid fucking googly-eyed mouse slippers Marley wears comes tolling into her room. Right, here it comes, Santana's sure of it.

"If you've come to gloat, both you and Ratatouille can fuck right off," Santana warns.

Marley is quiet and Santana huffs when she feels the bed dip next to her. "Now why would I ever do that?"

"How long have you been living here now?" Santana asks.

Marley, even when thrown by the question, still answers dutifully. "About nine months."

"And how much of that time have I spent mercilessly teasing you about your terrible taste in men?"

"About ninety-five percent."

"Exactly. This is the optimum time for revenge, isn't it?"

"Santana," Marley says, quiet now. "Of course not. Never. I just bought you some ice cream."

Santana snorts. "What is this? One Tree fucking Hill?"

"I don't know, is it?" Marley bites back. "You're lying around all depressed and staring at the non-existent sky – looks an awful lot like some serious CW material to me."

"Touché," Santana says. She enjoys the backbone Marley's grown over time, she's not going to lie. "Thanks for the ice cream, but contrary to CW belief, it doesn't really do all that much when you're in too deep with some bitch whose pants you apparently shared with the entire lesbian population of the East Coast the whole time you were together. I mean, that at least needs some bourbon as an entry-level sedative. I swear to God I'm going to have to take six STD tests after this just to make sure I'm fucking clean."

Marley frowns a bit. "You always said she wasn't your girlfriend, though."

"Yeah, well," Santana shrugs.

"You wanted her to be," Marley notes. It's not a question.

Santana sits up and catches Marley's sympathetic look while at it, and it's like she suddenly realises what a pathetic cliché she's being right now. And she'll be damned if she loses her shit over some stupid whore who didn't know what she had, because who the fuck cheats on Santana fucking Lopez?

She's been moping long enough, Santana decides just then. Time to pull herself the fuck together, and barrel through the pain.

"Okay, I'm good," Santana announces. "Let's go grab the Hobbit, go out and get our drink on."

"Wait, what?" Marley stutters, watching as Santana jumps up and starts rifling through her drawers for her purse. "Just like that? Two seconds ago you were mourning your girlfriend and now you want to go out?"

"Like you just reiterated, not my girlfriend, after all." Finally finding her purse, Santana strides over to the door. "Come along."

"But," Marley says, looking almost forlorn as she slowly rises and holds out the tub. "Ice cream."

"Listen, Marley," Santana says, serious for a moment. "You've already helped more than you know, okay? Now you can help by getting the fuck up and changing into something appropriate." She says this whilst eyeing those damn fucking mouse slippers.

"Santana," Marley grabs Santana's arm to keep her from exiting. "Sure, I don't want to gloat – but I can't deny it's not a little enticing to be the shoulder for you to lean on for a change."

Santana smiles grimly. "That's not how this works, remember? I'm the wise old sensible fucking sage and you're the one that needs the help, mostly, you know? Don't go changing on me now, Rose."

Marley purses her lips. It looks like she wants to complain for a moment, but she can see the resolution on Santana's face, maybe, because she gives in a second later. Santana can see she's still hung up on things, and so aims to break the tension.

"Come on. You can go be the dancing queen. Young and sweet. Only seventeen," Santana jokes.

"God, Santana," Marley says, smiling again. "I'm nineteen now, jeez."

"Fuck, already? You'll always be little Rose to me, though," Santana winks, and Marley – in a habit she must have picked up from Santana – rolls her eyes before going to her room to change. Santana smiles to herself as she heads to Rachel's room in turn.

Santana will never admit it, but that whole exchange definitely leaves her feeling slightly better off than before.

–

–

**four.**

It feels like the end of a fucking era. Sure, Santana has complained almost every second of the past three years she had to share a living space with Rachel, but that doesn't mean it wasn't done with a little bit of love every now and then, of course.

She gets that Rachel's graduating now and is moving up in the world, but she also feels like, a strange loyalty to this stupid fucking loft. She wonders what it says about her that she constantly stays the one in rotation around this place as the years and inhabitants pass by, but then realises that she doesn't even fucking care because at the end of the day, she's sure she'll love and stay in this dump until the day she dies – or until after she gets super rich and gets the chance to actually move the fuck out of it.

Either way, it's just her and Marley left now – well, it's been two years of them rooming together and Marley only has another two years left at NYU, so Santana adds _for now_ in the back of her mind – and they'll have to start the gruelling process of trying to fill the Berry-shaped hole that will be left in their hearts after the big blowout farewell party tonight.

"Think there are any random McKinley new-new-newbie derelicts that might show up out of nowhere and save us the trouble, like last time?" Santana asks Marley as they hang up the streamers and banners to Rachel's exact instructions – whatever, they let her boss them around for one last mission, for old times' sake.

Marley just pushes Santana with her shoulder and Santana smirks at her affectionately.

–

Everyone is fucked up drunk and they're half an hour into the obviously obligatory Rachel Berry bedazzled-mike-karaoke session. For some fucking inane reason, they're singing _Can You Feel The Love Tonight_, and Santana's actually getting so emotional right now, sharing the _our trio's down to two_ verse with Marley.

Not long after, she's saved from any further shaming tears when Rachel announces, in her now-hyper phase of drunkenness, that it's time for her other drunken-party favourite, Spin The Bottle.

Santana can't save her eye-roll even if she tried, but she gamely joins the circle anyway, because fuck if her ice heart doesn't fall victim to a shadow of sentimentality every so often.

–

After a couple of crazy rounds – where Santana totally got to snog that hot NYADA classmate of Rachel's, score, but also that gross stoner who always seems to show up at all their parties out of nowhere, gross – Santana bursts out laughing when Kurt spins and lands on Rachel.

The rules are fifteen seconds with parting lips – and optional tongue if the participants so wish, once again, score on that sexy classmate – and seeing the horror on Kurt's face is basically the most entertained Santana's felt since aforementioned lip-lock.

Watching them awkwardly stumble over to each other and cringe into their kiss is about twelve-hundred times more awful than Santana could have ever imagined. She laughs _so hard_ she almost fucking chokes. When the bottle spins again and lands on her, though, she looks up to find a shocked Marley looking back at her, and well, then the laughter finally fades.

"Yes, revenge!" Rachel squeals somewhere from her left, but she's too busy gulping incredibly hard to actually notice the words.

Marley bites her lip and Santana looks around helplessly, because, well, shit. Marley, in her mind, is sometimes still something of a youngling constantly in need of Santana's help, and this feels like it's going to be some serious cradle-robbing. And over the past year Marley has steadily become one of her best friends, so, it's just, _strange_. But then she shakes the weirdness off, because she's not scared of shit, obviously.

She side-eyes Marley's boyfriend, one that's actually lasted this time, who just looks like it's his birthday, and well, so that's not an issue then. She glances back at Marley, who looks to her for guidance, and Santana sighs, knowing she needs to like, fucking set an example or some shit.

"Get on up then, Tiny Times," Santana orders, crawling closer to where Marley's sitting.

Kurt whoops, and Santana smiles a bit at the action, rolling her eyes as she angles her face toward Marley. The last glimpse she gets of Marley's face is Marley looking down at her lips with a slight curiosity under the terror and it makes Santana smirk as their lips touch but then–

Oh. So. Okay.

Well, that's not all that terrible, then, Santana thinks. Actually, it's like – oh, wow – it's okay because – yeah, okay, that's rather lovely then. Uhm, yes, Santana thinks, she'll be fine because – okay, that's... yes, Santana's fine, really, it's just – _oh_. And now Marley's hand is on her cheek and her face is being angled to – damn, okay, so that's like – Jesus, okay. Sure, it's quite... Fuck, okay, wow, that's kind of–

A hand on her shoulder disconnects her lips from Marley's and her eyes snap open to look at Kurt's gleeful face, which announces that, "Alright girls, ran a bit away from the fifteen second mark there!"

Santana's mind focuses in on the cheers and immediately looks back to Marley, whose eyes are only now opening fully, zeroing in on Santana with an expression Santana can't even begin to decipher. Santana fixes her own into one of neutrality as quickly as she can, watching in masked shock as Marley's face breaks into a shy, satisfied smile, but then her boyfriend slides in next to her, kissing her neck and mumbling something about how hot that was. And then Marley's entire face falls and Santana looks away to something else, trying to focus back on which victims are next in the game.

She, well, she doesn't _avoid_ Marley for the night so much as focuses on drinking everything within reaching distance, but whatever. It's not a big deal, she tells herself. Kissing feels good, she means, it's not going to start being horrible just because this is her little mentee, after all. It's just trivialities, some drunken fun, so whatever.

Speaking of, she pumps some more alcohol into her veins to the point of deliriousness, then welcomes the blackout.

–

–

**five.**

This is an absolute nightmare. She should have fucking chained Rachel to her bed and never let her leave.

"You're gay?" the newest excuse for a potential tenant asks. "That's so hot."

"And goodbye," Santana announces. She gets up and goes to the kitchen, leaving Marley to throw the stupid fucking twat out herself.

Moments later, she hears Marley in the kitchen behind her. "Isn't it a little early for whiskey, Santana?"

"I'm going to need it to get through this day. That was like, what, number six?" Santana says, pointing to the now empty living room. "We've had fucking voodoo artists, geriatric strippers and literal homeless people – which, how the fuck did they see our online ad in the first place? And we have how many more to go?"

"Twelve," Marley answers casually.

Santana downs her glass in a single sip. "Christ."

The doorbell rings. Here we go again. Santana throws another shot in her glass and drowns it immediately, answering the frown on Marley's face with a shrug that silently asks, _What else do you want me to do?_

When they open the door for the next one, though, Santana changes her mind instantly, because – hot _damn_. There's a blonde in the doorway, that's all leg and bare midriff and sexy smirk and can this be their last interviewee now, please?

"Uhm. Claire?" comes Marley's voice from her side, and Santana wastes no time in saying, "Come in," and stepping aside, because who even fucking cares if this is Claire or not?

Marley shoots her a look and Santana pays it no mind, eagerly taking a seat opposite Claire while Marley slowly strolls over and sits next to Santana. Marley asks, "So, where do you work?" at the same time that Santana asks, "So, how soon can you move in?"

And then Marley glares at her, communicating that Santana needs to shut the fuck up, and Santana decides to oblige and do so but only so that she can use the time to appreciate the view in front of her instead.

She watches Claire closely as Marley talks to her, seeing her smirk back in Santana's direction every so often between questions, and yes, this suits Santana just fine. She is distracted every now and then, though, glancing to her side to see Marley's profile, smiling in that kind way she always does with strangers – though it seems a bit forced here, but whatever – and then at how her eyes crinkle when she laughs and –

(Fuck, Santana should really stop this shit now, as it's been like a whole month since that fucking– well, it was stupid, anyway, and Santana's sure she just made a big deal out of a drunken nothing, so whatever. She forces herself to look away at Claire, instead, who is just really the perfect little diversion to come along lately, and so yes, she'll climb ride aboard this train without thought, thanks.)

Before she knows it, Claire is standing up and leaving, Marley's telling her they'll let her know, and the door is closing with Marley saying, "Still looking, then," and then Santana seems to wake up.

"Are you insane? She was perfect!"

"No, I'm just thinking with my head," Marley purses her lips. "Not my..." She makes a weird hand gesture and Santana struggles to follow.

"I'm not thinking with my fucking clavicle, where the fuck are you pointing?"

Marley sighs. "Whatever. It's just not going to work."

"_Why?_"

"Because, Santana," Marley says. "What happened to your high and mighty no-sleeping-with-roommates rule suddenly?"

"_What?_"

"You were practically undressing her with your eyes, and it's not like she wasn't liking it."

"_So?_"

"Have you turned into a three year old?" Marley huffs. "Let's just leave it, okay? We have eleven more options."

"Fucking hell," Santana says, stomping back to the kitchen.

"Santana, you cannot get drunk for this today!"

"Yeah, well, I can't do this sober, either, so shoot me."

Just as well, too, because by the next interview she's ready to strangle something.

He's like a real life fucking doppelgänger of Rachel's old plastic man, and his oh-so charming smile widens upon seeing Marley, and Marley blushes when it does, and Christ, Santana definitely has not had enough whiskey to deal with this today. Fucking hypocrite, accusing Santana of leering at their future roommates, and what is this shit then?

"No thanks," Santana sneers, slamming the door in his face before he can even greet them.

"Santana, what the hell?" Marley grumbles next to her.

"We're not rooming with a dude, didn't we decide that after the lesbian-enthusiast from before?" Santana states. "It was bad enough that your boyfriend – wait, sorry, now-ex boyfriend for some still-mysterious reason – basically fucking lived her and shed his chest hair all over my fucking leather couch. I'm not dealing with that again."

Marley ignores the jibe about her love life, looking uncomfortable for a second. Santana's has been trying to get the details of that shit out of her for weeks, but to no avail. Instead, Marley counters with, "Uhm, hello, what about Kurt?"

Santana gives her a pointed look. "He doesn't even _have_ chest hair."

"Just," Marley closes her eyes and inhales deeply, "_try_ to keep an open mind, will you?"

Santana throws up her hands in defeat, stalking to the kitchen for more whiskey instead of watching Marley open the door and drool over that idiota. She stays there until he's gone and the next one knocks, reluctantly joining Marley on the couch, this time bringing her whiskey with her, not giving any fucks anymore.

Santana gets progressively more drunk as the afternoon goes on, and progressively more angry at Marley, who seems to be batting her eyelashes more and more at every fucking candidate that steps into the room. She kicks up her game by flirting it up with anything with boobs that steps into the apartment, too. But she keeps herself in check, keeping Snix locked up for the most part, only ever so often biting at something stupid one of their guests says, ignoring Marley's disapproval when she does so.

"Well, that was awful and useless," Santana slurs as they close the door on the last participant.

"Because you didn't even give anyone a chance," Marley growls from beside her.

Santana snorts, backing away jokingly. "Whoa, who set fire to Rose's tampon, Jesus."

"Santana!" Marley scolds. "I'm trying to talk to you and– God, you're so drunk, I–"

"Whatever," Santana says. She's tired and fucked up and not in the mood for Marley's bitchiness, but also strangely in the mood for it, too? Marley is sometimes at her most entertaining when she shows a bit of her claws, Santana thinks. "I'm going to bed, I'm sick of this."

"Santana," Marley huffs, following her out of the living room. "What is with you? Today, every time some guy came in here you were... Can you just–"

Santana steps into the bathroom and slams the door behind her. She's slightly off kilter. She undresses and stumbles while she does so, because everything suddenly seems to have thrice as many straps as it usually does.

"Fine," Marley's voice travels through the door. "You're drunk, anyway. So. _Fine_. Goodnight, Santana."

Santana almost laughs, because fucking Marley, staying proper even when she's mad as fuck. But instead, at that moment, she trips and falls and hits that stupid fucking cabinet Rachel bought at Bed, Bath and Beyond so hard that she sees, well, fucking golden stars – which, real fucking appropriate, thanks, Rachel.

Well, then. That hurts like a motherfucker. Or well, she assumes so, because there's a dull throb coming from the junction where the shoulder meets her neck, and when she touches it and pulls her hand away, there's blood everywhere, and fuck.

"Santana?" Marley's panicked voice only stays outside for a second before the door opens and Marley's right at her side. "Oh my God, Santana, don't move."

Santana feels like a fucking mess. Lying there in her underwear, useless, drunk and bleeding, like, what is this, some fucking Hallmark PSA? Marley presses a wet cloth to her wound, which she guesses she cut open on the corner of the fucking cabinet, and by the way it burns even with the alcohol numbing most of the pain, Santana guesses it's _deep_.

"I'm fine," Santana mumbles, pushing Marley away and trying to sit up, but Marley holds her down somewhat forcefully. Daring a peek at Marley's face, Santana sees that she's about a thousand percent done with Santana right now.

"Fuck, Santana," Marley scolds, and Santana's so shocked by the cursing that it shuts her right up. "You're always either sticking your neck out for me or being too damn stubborn for me to help you. Can you just please let me meet you in the middle? For once?"

Fuck if she's going to let Marley one-up her. It's not really the middle Marley wants, but Santana guesses she could do with an extra fucking hand – or three – here. So she nods, and lets Marley help her up and redress her, only half-conscious at this point. She flits in and out of it as Marley helps her down the stairs and into a taxi cab, and then some time passes until she sees that she's in some kind of white room with people leaning over her, and Marley is also there, somewhere in her peripheral.

"Alright, Santana," an older voice says from her right. "The pain will be gone in a second, the morphine will start working and we'll get those stitches in as quick as we can. You just rest, okay?"

But Santana isn't paying attention to any of that, only to Marley's worried face on her other side, looking down at her with a light shining behind her on the ceiling, which makes her look, like – well, God, Santana doesn't want to sound sappy in here, but close to fucking _angelic _right now. And God damnit, this is not the right time to notice just how beautiful Marley seems to her suddenly, like what the fuck.

"It's okay, Santana," comes Marley's soft voice. "You'll be okay."

"Sorry," Santana says, and hopes Marley understands it's not just for her drunken collapse.

"It's okay," Marley repeats, and then she doesn't know if it's the morphine kicking in, but she swears she feels Marley's hand softly cup her cheek, thumb slowly stroking her jaw, and it feels so wonderful that–

Santana decides to just pass out at that point.

Before she does something moronic like fall in love with her stupid fucking straight roommate or something.

–

–

**(one.)**

The new roommate just ends up being fucking Unique. Santana couldn't stop laughing when it happened, because wasn't this exactly what she predicted with lost McKinley kids just showing up a their doorstep? Even Marley, who tries and fails to look at Santana in reprimand, can't suppress a chuckle.

Santana likes the new kid, who is funny and ballsy – pun maybe intended? – in a way that doesn't piss her off quite yet. And also strangely loaded, which makes everything around the apartment run smoother, of course. They welcome her with a nice glee-like get together, and it's good to see that no matter how old they get – though, not that old yet, Santana reminds herself, just mostly graduated and like, being working 20-somethings, so there's still lots of life left yet – loft parties don't really seem to go out of style.

Still recovering slightly from her literally run in with the cabinet, stitches just freshly taken out, Santana stays away from the alcohol for the night and opts to join Steve, Kurt's new friend – and thus Blaine's new mortal enemy – out on the fire escape for a joint. Or six.

He leaves to go talk to someone and Santana's left alone, sitting with her legs hanging off the side and leaning on the railing, looking at the street below. She thinks about how well things are going at work and how relatively pleased she is with where her life is heading right now, and things are fine, Santana thinks. She doesn't think about her non-existent love life, which hasn't stretched past one night stands for months, but even those aren't nearly as fun as they used to be, for some reason.

And then she thinks, briefly, about Marley, who Santana actually doesn't really want to think about but also seems to can't _stop_ thinking about lately, and it's just... This is her _roommate_. That's supposed to be it. She really needs to, just, well, _stop_.

Feet sink down in the space beside her and, speak of the devil, Marley plops down next to her, wine cooler in hand, smiling at her softly.

"Happy?" Marley asks, pointing at the blunt held between Santana's fingers. Santana just rolls her eyes. "I also meant with the whole Unique thing."

"Of course," Santana says. "I like her, and she's your mate, and I think it'll be great. Well, for as long as you're staying, at least."

"What do you mean?" Marley says.

Santana shrugs. "You have just under two years left at uni, right? Then you're going to pull a Rachel and high tail it out of here after signing your recording deal, or whatever. It's cool, I get it."

"I'm not going anywhere," Marley says. "And you can't make me," she jokingly adds.

"It's okay," Santana says. "I'm the only loser who seems to stay around here, so. Used to it."

"A loser recently promoted to junior executive in the recording company she works at? Wow, where do I sign up for this loser club?"

"Shut up," Santana smiles.

"I love this place," Marley says. "I love the broken sink tap and the too-small cupboards in the kitchen and the barely-there walls. And I love being here, with you. I don't see any reason to leave."

Santana gulps. She just nods in reply.

"Santana," Marley starts, but doesn't follow up with it for a while. Then Santana feels a hand on her own, and looks up to find Marley looking at her imploringly. "When you asked me why I broke up with my boyfriend, it's because... Well, I've been, kind of–"

"_Santanaaaaa_," Rachel's voice screeches behind them. "You need to see this right now!"

"Rachel, can you give us a minute?" Marley asks.

She looks at Santana with purpose, silently asking her to stay, but Santana feels all of a sudden not so together around Marley anymore, and if she's about to really lose control, so she jumps up and stubs out her joint, breaking free from Marley's grasp as she does so.

"Yeah," Santana answers Rachel, breaking eye contact with Marley like the coward she is. "Let's see what this is about."

And so she leaves Marley out on the fire escape, just like that.

–

Santana's sleepy, but sober, as the night comes to a close. She trips over like six bodies on the way to her room, and promptly face-plants on her mattress, before shimmying under the covers.

She tries not to think about a soft hand on her own and crystal blue eyes asking for something in the moonlight, but fails, falling into a very restless sleep that feels filled with regret.

The slumber doesn't last long, though, as rough shuffling from her side wakes her up. She turns around to see what's up, and through bleary eyes just about makes out Marley's form getting under the covers with her.

"Marley?" she whispers. "What's wro– Mmmppfff."

Santana's eyes shoot open as Marley presses her lips and body against Santana's own, legs tangling with her own and a hand coming up to hold the back of her head. Santana barely gets to move, but manages just enough to push Marley away from her, gasping for air.

"The fuck is happening right now?!" Santana asks wildly.

"Shhh," Marley says. "Everyone's sleeping."

"I fucking know everyone's sleeping, Marley," Santana whispers angrily. "That's what you should be doing, too, I mean, honestly, what the actual–"

"I'm tired of pretending," Marley whispers against her. "Aren't you?"

That one quiets her down.

"Marley," Santana starts. "We can't."

"Why not?" Marley asks.

Santana doesn't have an answer, really, and wonders why she didn't ever realise that before.

"I know you feel it too," Marley says, staring at Santana with questioning eyes, and Santana can't help it when she nods in reply. That stupid fucking betraying goddamn neck of hers, what the fuck.

"I hate fighting with you all the time lately," Marley says.

Santana raises a brow. "And this is the alternative?"

"No," Marley says. "It's been the solution. If you'd just stop being, so... _you_."

Santana wants to be offended, but it's said so fondly that she can't believe she hasn't heard the adoration held for Santana in Marley's tone before.

"So, tell me when I've struck gold, okay?" Marley says, tone jovial, and Santana starts at the change, but smiles at the reference to their first meeting three years ago. "Option A. You let me kiss you right now, and we see how well things work out for us from there. Option B. You don't let me, which will make me incredibly sad and I'll start being depressed and drinking up all my rent money, and not even Unique will be able to cover for me, and this whole loft system will fall apart. Or option C. We pretend this never happened, one of us moves out and we stay miserable our entire lives just because one Santana Lopez was too scared of some ordinary NYU junior to take a simple step forward with her."

Fuck, there's that backbone again. Santana can't help the incredible attraction she feels toward Marley in that moment – attraction that actually stretches so far beyond simple _attraction_ that she can't even begin to describe it.

"You're anything but ordinary," Santana replies simply.

Marley's smile is blinding, and Santana gives up, then. She _lets_ Marley. Just _lets_ her. Lets Marley kiss her like they're blending into one person, lets Marley slowly undress her, and then, well.

Then she lets Marley surprise _her_, for a change. Santana loses control, in a very big way, and strangely, ends up not minding one single bit.


End file.
